


Five Times Hugged

by theharellan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 13:18:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16640879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theharellan/pseuds/theharellan
Summary: Solas isn't much of a hugger, but Thora is.For those who fell in love with the potential for friendship between Solas and the Inquisitor.





	Five Times Hugged

_**one.**_  Brown eyes watch him when she thinks he’s not looking, checking constantly, as if needing to ensure he’s still standing there. They are not the suspicious, furtive glances of the Inquisition’s Templars, her concern not for the people around him, but Solas himself. One one such glance he lifts his head to catch Thora’s gaze, holding it even as she looks away quickly. “If there is something on your mind, Herald, speak,” he urges. She presses her hand against a warm cheek, still avoiding his gaze. “Whatever burdens you might benefit from a pair of willing ears.”

“It’s just– it’s nothing…” A blatant eyes, and when their eyes meet again she blushes evermore furiously. The corner of her mouth tugs into a frown and she pulls at her sleeves with distracted hands before she finds her voice. It’s… I saw you die, you know.”

The patient smile he wore fades, brow knitting together. Part of him still refuses to believe what she and Dorian saw at Redcliffe Castle was anything more than a figment of the Fade. Yet as a child of the Stone such figment are new phenomenon, as new to her as this world is to him.

(To believe it to be more, to take her at her world, would be to face his own mortality, his own ears.)

“Perhaps,” he answers, a non-committal response. “Regardless of what you saw, I am alive now.”

“I know,” she says, sighing with what sounds like relief. “I know, I just–” Without another word she throws herself around him, arms holding him tight. Solas goes still, not daring to even breath. Her touch is heavy as the world she heralds, save for the light in her palm, but it isn’t an unpleasant weight. When it occurs to him to move, to hug her in return, she retreats before his hands so much as brush her elbows. “Sorry!” she gasps, eyes angled downwards (as if she must look down to avoid him). “Sorry, I should have asked.”

“Perhaps,” he echoes himself, though it is a warmer sound this time. “But in the future you needn’t.”

“Oh.” Thora looks up, face brimming with a bright smile. “Well, good.”

* * *

_**two.**_  “Inquisitor, some of our watchmen sighted Solas from the battlements. We thought–”

Thora doesn’t hear the rest of the report, already pushing out from her desk to hurry down the steps. By the time she reaches the fortress’s courtyard her breath is heavy and her heart is pounding in her ears. It’s worth it, though, to reach the gate in time to see Solas pass through. His steps are slow, broad shoulders sagging from sorrow still not shed. She breathes in sharply, sympathy flooding her being, and before she knows it she’s wrapping her arm around his middle. He goes rigid for a moment, then relaxes, hands falling onto her shoulders.

“Thank you, Thora,” he whispers.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming back.”

“For a time, neither was I,” he responds. If that comment is meant to comfort her, it doesn’t. She squeezes him tighter, soft wool fabric pressing against a branded cheek, releasing him only when she’s sure he’s here to stay. “I worried you, I take it.”

“More than just me.”

Solas winces like she struck him, but with his eyes nowhere to go but down, her gaze cannot be avoided. “I apologise for any distress I caused you. I needed some time to think, and to mourn.”

Thora catches his hand in hers, squeezing it tight, the corners of her eyes wrinkling as she flashes him a smile. “You don’t need to be sorry, Solas. Go see Ian, we can talk later.”

* * *

_**three.**_ Solas shouldn’t have taken the bet, and yet he does, flipping over a Priestess and Priest with all the confidence of man who’d fixed a Proving to fall in his favour. “I thought you were supposed to be good at this,” she snorts, turning over her Queen to pair with her Magician. “I win again.”

He reaches for his glass of wine, taking a slow drink and looking none-too-fussed about another round falling in her favour. And he has no reason not to be, not like they’re playing for money or anything. The bottle of wine at his side he had won not half an hour ago (he poured her a glass, but only one) and he’d surrendered to her chocolates she has every intention of sharing, but that’ll just make them taste sweeter. 

It seems an age before he puts down his glass, the base clinking against the wooden table. “Perhaps it was beginner’s luck,” he muses, arching a brow. Reaching forward, he takes the cards between his hands and shuffles them less gracefully than he had earlier that evening. “Reminder me what your terms were?”

“You owe me a thirty second hug.”

“Ah, a high stakes game.” He chuckles, and Thora waits for the undignified snort that follows to crack a smile. Placing the cards between them, he motions with his fingers for her to come to him. Probably wise, though in another hour she’s thinking she’ll probably wager a game just to see him try to walk in a straight line. For now, she rises, chair scraping against the floor.

Solas smells of earth and wine, and when she melts against him it’s almost enough to forget the cold night air that lingers just outside the tavern. It’s like someone lit a torch inside his chest where his heart should be. She used to think it was all mages, but Ian turned out to feel just the opposite. A moment passes, and then another, and she hears another laugh rumble from his chest.

“Have you been counting?” he asks, and she only shakes her head a little against him. “Neither have I.”

* * *

_**four.**_  She holds the journal so tight he can see the tension in her knuckles, her eyes scanning the words so fast it’s a wonder she takes in a single word. Solas allows her the moment. She stands beneath the shape of a dwarven statue, its base covered in names and flowering moss. Her frame is lit by sunlight that pours in from the surface, grass growing at her feet. If Thora sees the poetry in the moment, she doesn’t say, but he commits the image to memory, knowing one day it will make a fine painting.

“Well?” he prompts, allowing her enough time to read the Shaper’s discoveries a dozen times. “What have you discovered?”

“There was someone else here before– Cad’halash. Maybe… distant ancestors? I don’t– I’d never heard the name before now.”

Solas moves forward, padding across the grass to look over her shoulder. Dwarven handwriting is scrawled across the journal, well-preserved for a document that had been abandoned decades ago, if not longer. Up close he can see her hands shaking, and plants a steady hand upon her shoulder, leaning down to her level.

“They were killed, something about Kal-Sharok not wanting to jeopardise its, uh, alliance with Tevinter?”

His ears flick forward. “And what would Tevinter care for a single thaig?”

“Those carvings you said looked Elvhen? They were. They were harbouring elves. Refugees– from Elvhenan.” The word hits him like a knee to his stomach, and he peers closer at the paper, skimming the words himself. There they are, words that confirm everything Thora says. He suddenly finds himself keen to make camp, rest his head someplace soft and see what he may find in dreams. But Thora’s breath snaps him from his distraction, anchoring him to the present. “We destroyed our own people, just for doing the right thing.”

“One wonders why Cad’halash didn’t simply surrender the elves.”

“Because they were better than that.” Thora’s answer is quick and sure, as if she had been there herself. “Whatever happened to the elves, whether it was Tevinter, or other elves, there were people who needed help, and Cad’halash… my people… helped them.” It isn’t until she sniffs loudly that he realises there is a lump forming in his throat, and that tears prick the corners of his eyes to match the ones that fall from hers. “Sometimes, being Inquisitor, it felt like people were making me out to be all the things I was never meant to be, but this… and that golem my house got exiled for. It makes everything seem more right, somehow. Like I was always meant to help, always meant to… do good.” She closes the book around one finger, wiping at her eye with her other hand. “Probably sounds stupid, huh?”

No words answer her, only a sharp tug from behind. She falls back into his arms without complaint, as he rests his nose against the back of her head. Thora shakes in his arms, half-sobbing, half-laughing, “You’re not gonna let me hug you?” she asks. Solas snorts, loosening his grip just enough for her to turn around and slide her arms under his. He can feel her tears against him, soaking through the front of his sweater, and pulls her tighter against him, ignoring how her armour pokes his chest. “Y’know, no matter how hard you hug me,” she begins laughingly, in a hoarse voice, “my ancestors aren’t gonna feel it.”

* * *

_**five.**_  Cracks form along her gauntlet, the green glow beneath as bright as the sun, and twice as hot. It burns, the ache back and worse than before. Her world flashes white, eyes squeezing shut as a scream breaks from her lips. Make it stop, make it stop, make it–

A hand is offered, awaiting her touch, as Solas speaks promises of a life beyond this moment. She has a hard time believing it, the pain that rips through her begs to differ. Thora reaches out for him, but does not gently lay her hand in his. She grasps it with what little strength she has left and pulls him to one knee, other arm reaching to wrap around him.

It’s almost as it was before: Solas stiffens, then goes soft, nudging the side of her head with his own. It’s no longer wool against her cheek, but armour, unyielding against her skin. Still, his touch is the same, light as ever and warm even through his gauntlet.

“I love you, y’know,” she says, gasping for air between thoughts. “I promise, you won’t have to do this. I promise, I’ll find a way–”

Through her blood screaming in her ear he can hear him swallow heavily, as he always does before he cries. “Whatever happens,” he whispers back, “know I feel the same. I am honoured to know you, and proud to call you friend.” His hand squeezes the Anchored hand, and she can feel the magic drain from her, like blood from an open wound. It’s painful and satisfying at once, and pulls the feeling from her fingers.

“Live well, while time remains.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on theharellan, my roleplay blog.


End file.
